


2-Crime and Punishment

by WritestuffLee



Series: The Warrior's Heart, Volume 1, Early Days [2]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Drama, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-07-19
Updated: 1999-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:01:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritestuffLee/pseuds/WritestuffLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruck Chun forces the issue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	2-Crime and Punishment

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork by Smitty

Obi-Wan was tired, not so much in body as in soul. He and his master had returned to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant a few hours before from a miserable fact-finding mission on one of the Outer Rim’s grottier worlds, and he was heartily sick of slave-dealing Hutts and smugglers, and the blatant flaunting of sentience’s worst characteristics. Worse yet, he knew that the Senate before which they would make their report in the morning cared far less than they for the fate of the slaves they had discovered being sold through the Rim Territories, even those who were, like himself, Force-sensitive.

Raised in the Temple tradition to serve, Obi-Wan seldom thought about why he did so. Tonight, it seemed a waste of time and lives, his own and his master’s. There was so much wrong, and so few people and so few ways to right it. And now there was one less person, with Rian Binradin’s master killed by pirates. All the Temple had suspected as much when the pair had first disappeared a year ago—it was a far too common occurrence—and he should be glad they had at least been able to free her from the slavers. But the look in her eyes and her grief haunted him.

His own master, sensing his malaise, had sent Obi-Wan off to the refectory to eat, knowing it would help restore him. So he had eaten, dutifully and without pleasure, and couldn’t say that it had helped much. What he wanted now was a hot bath and sleep’s forgetfulness. What he got instead was a rude awakening.

It was a hard collision, almost a body slam, completely unexpected, largely inexcusable, nearly impossible if he had been paying any sort of attention, been “mindful of the moment,” as his master so often exhorted him to be. It sent him crashing hard into the refectory’s door frame, and tipped his victim right off his feet. One shoulder bruised from contact with the wall, the other wrenched from contact with the other warm body, he winced, caught his breath, and automatically began an effusive apology, reaching out with one hand to help—

“Oafy-Wan! You haven’t changed a bit,” the deeper but still familiar voice announced loudly, disgust thick in the tone.

The old, hated nickname yanked him back seven years and put a face to the voice. He’d heard little of Bruck Chun since the disastrous incident with Xanatos in which he’d almost killed Bant and nearly died himself. At their parting, he had suspected Bruck would end up where he had once himself been headed, the Agricultural Corps, if not expelled from the order entirely. So seeing him with a Padawan braid and cauda was shocking.

“Bruck,” Obi-Wan said, quelling his surprise and acknowledging the other young man. “My apologies. I was preoccupied.” Obi-Wan offered his hand again but the other apprentice brushed it aside and got to his feet without assistance. He stood glaring at Obi-Wan, working his own shoulder, sizing up his old enemy. Obi-Wan returned the glare coolly, despite his chagrin. The two apprentices were much more of a size now, Bruck having caught up to Obi-Wan’s early growth, and perhaps surpassed him a little, but he looked just the same, but for one drastic change: the long scar along Bruck’s jaw, reminder of some nasty incident in the recent past. “I see you found yourself a master also,” Obi-Wan remarked.

“As you escaped the farmers,” Bruck replied sarcastically. “Still Padawan of the great Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn, no less. I’d heard you’d managed to convince him to take you back after you deserted him for some noble cause. Quite a feat, that.”

Obi-Wan said nothing. Bruck’s hostility didn’t surprise him. They had disliked each other ever since he could remember, growing up here at the Temple, or at least Bruck had taken a dislike to Obi-Wan, who only began to pay Bruck any attention at all when the other boy had begun tormenting him during adolescence. What puzzled Obi-Wan was why he’d continue it after all this time.

“Why you? When he left here, Master Jinn wasn’t even interested in you.” Bruck sounded genuinely curious, but there was jealousy underneath. “Then you left him on some stupid escapade and he actually took you back. Amazing.”

 _Ah_ , Obi-Wan thought. “I admitted I was wrong. I worked hard to show him and the Council that I meant what I said. As to why he forgave me, or why he finally chose me in the first place, you’d have to ask my master, Bruck. He’s never told me.”

Which was not quite a lie. Qui-Gon had never told him, in so many words, why he’d changed his mind first about accepting Obi-Wan as his Padawan, then about taking him back, but he had seen the look on his master’s face when he had offered his life to allow Qui-Gon to save half a planet from destruction. In his master’s eyes had been astonishment, respect, honor, and something he now knew was the first manifestation of the bond they shared as master and apprentice, a bond created by the Force. Even after Melida/Daan there was no denying that aspect of their relationship. And the will of the Force was the one thing Qui-Gon would not ignore. “None of us know why we’re chosen. It is the will of the Force.”

“The will of the Force,” Bruck muttered, “my arse.”

 _Still angry, and now jealous, and has been for years, apparently,_ Obi-Wan thought, pitying Bruck for the first time in his life. _What a trial you must be to your master._ Again he said nothing. There was no point in encouraging Bruck. Instead, he turned to go, murmuring a polite good night.

“What favors did you give the great Jedi Master to rescue you from AgriCorps and take you back when you betrayed him?” Bruck shouted after him. “That’s what pushed his first apprentice to the Dark Side, or didn’t you know? That’s really why he’s not on the Council.”

“Bruck, leave off. You’re acting like you did when we were children,” Obi-Wan said tiredly, turning back for a moment, knowing he should ignore those words, too. “That rumor was old years ago.” _And now I know for certain how ridiculous it was, having met Qui-Gon’s former apprentice. You should too._

“Hit a nerve? How do you like sharing quarters with him?” Bruck persisted, leering. Obi-Wan felt his face flush hotly. There were some emotional responses even a Jedi couldn’t control, not in an instant. “Oh, you _like_ it,” Bruck went on knowingly, stepping in closer, almost onto Obi-Wan’s toes. “And when did he start in on you? I suppose you’re the bottom, or does he like to ride—”

A rage he hadn’t felt in years, hadn’t known he still possessed, roiled up in Obi-Wan’s guts, seething out of its long dormancy like a disturbed nest of snakes. Bruck had always known right where to push to hurt the most and within a minute of their latest meeting had made his second attempt to ruin his perceived rival’s reputation. And just as he had years before, Obi-Wan stupidly took the bait. In the next instant, he found he’d used the Force to hurl Bruck so hard against the corridor wall that he’d managed to crack the other apprentice’s clavicle.

 

Later, having seen Bruck to the Healers and reported himself to the Docent, he returned to his quarters to face whatever Qui-Gon had waiting for him, but his master was not there. Obi-Wan retreated to his own room to meditate before his master disciplined him, and tried to analyze what had set him off. It certainly wasn’t the resurrected nickname, though that had stung for a moment.

Was it the slur on Qui-Gon’s character? Bruck’s words were nothing he hadn’t heard before, when Qui-Gon’s second apprentice had initially turned against him, and again when the Jedi Master had claimed him as his new apprentice. It had seemed like a stupid rumor then, one that had died quickly both times, and seemed far more absurd now that he knew both the master and the former apprentice. Was it Bruck’s implication that he had won his way to Qui-Gon’s side by a perverted sort of bribery? An equally stupid statement so obviously born of jealousy that it was easily dismissed.

Obi-Wan searched his feelings ruthlessly and found no reaction in himself to any of these possibilities. That left only the implication that Bruck knew such a relationship existed. That anyone might know. That anyone might know Obi-Wan _wanted_ it to exist.

And how was he going to explain that?

 

When they had first met, Qui-Gon had been aloof and cold, almost brutal in his rejection. The thaw between them had been far more gradual than he’d let Bruck believe, and he’d done nothing to help it himself, deserting the man who had already been betrayed by one apprentice on what must have seemed like a whim. But they had grown close to one another, nonetheless, and become friends without either of them able to say when or how it had happened. A little less than three years later, he had watched Qui-Gon disintegrate emotionally and nearly fall into darkness with the death of the woman and fellow Jedi he had loved, and Obi-Wan had had to fight his way into Qui-Gon’s life once more, bringing the man back from isolation and pain, into the light. Although he doubted that wound would ever totally heal, Qui-Gon was once again the man Obi-Wan had come to love and respect as his master—a man deeply flawed in some ways, greyer than most Jedi and well aware of it, but at his core, good and kind.

He’d loved Qui-Gon, inexplicably, from the moment they had first spoken in the practice rooms when he still had hopes of being the great master’s apprentice. He’d loved him hopelessly in the days afterwards, when they had crossed paths again and again on shipboard and on Bandomeer, loved the Jedi Master with a complete selflessness that had led Obi-Wan to offer his own death with a calm heart and mind. He’d only come to love Qui-Gon more after becoming his apprentice, sharing days and nights and quarters and meals and thoughts and sometimes even beds with him, scarcely being out of his sight in the last seven years. The man was teacher, father, older brother, mentor, taskmaster, brother-in-arms. He had bound Obi-Wan’s wounds; healed him; watched over him when he was ill; soothed him when he was tired, cranky, out of sorts with himself and the world; disciplined him, at times harshly but never unfairly; set his limits and raised his sights; praised and cared for and taught him for a large part of his life, had made him who he was now—how could Obi-Wan not love him?

But when he had fallen in love with Qui-Gon, he could not say. He only knew he had.

Sometime in the past year or two, he had stopped seeing Qui-Gon as a hero to be worshiped, a parent to be pleased, a teacher to learn from, and begun seeing him as just a man, another man, like himself. Older, to be sure; wiser, undoubtedly; more experienced, without question—but a just a man. Well, not just a man. Or not just another man. Not like the young men he had slept with, trying out his sexuality; not at all like the young women whose differences in bed and out he found intriguing and pleasant. Not like anyone else.

Lately, Obi-Wan had become acutely aware of his master’s body, just how graceful he was, how easily he moved the large and muscular form that could have been so clumsy. It had come to him in something like an epiphany during a saber practice drill, watching his master run through katas, from the simple to the complex, how smoothly one movement flowed into another, like water rushing downstream. No movement wasted, no movement unnecessary, each one beautiful in its control and economy and the bridled passion beneath it. Qui-Gon’s skin glowed with sweat, his hair rippled behind him, caught back with the usual leather thong, his face was set in a look of fierce yet peaceful concentration. Obi-Wan could feel, almost see the Force flowing around and through him. Watching, he felt his heart seize up.

And knew he was lost, because such an epiphany added the one missing and truly volatile ingredient to the mix of his already strong feelings for his master: lust. He wanted nothing so much as to touch Qui-Gon at that moment, to stroke his skin, lick the sweat from it, bear him to the ground and taste every inch of him. _Every_ inch.

Fortunately, at that moment, Qui-Gon had slapped him on the rump with his low-powered saber, scorching the material of his practice tunic and raising a burn welt across his cheeks. “Pay attention, Padawan. What are you gawping at?” he’d said, making Obi-Wan’s face flame.

Since then, his life had been, in a word, torture. If Qui-Gon noticed, he said nothing, allowing his apprentice to struggle with his desire alone. And this is what he got for ruthlessly suppressing his feelings for too long. Fear. Anger. Hate. Suffering.

 _Good job, Padawan._ He could almost hear Bruck’s scornful voice.

But what was he supposed to do? Actually tell his master he’d fallen in love with him like some ridiculous adolescent? He couldn’t imagine it. He knew Qui-Gon too well to think his master would brush him off, but he also knew that the discussion which followed any such revelation would be more painful in its cool logic and gentle dissuasion than a stab in the heart with his own lightsaber, and he had no courage for it. So it seemed there was no answer.

And at the moment, he had more pressing problems.

“Padawan.” His master called him from the common room of their quarters. The tone of Qui-Gon’s voice raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Obi-Wan went to the next room like a man to his execution.

“Explain yourself, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon snapped at him, pacing the main room of their quarters, an aberrant and unchecked anger flaring off him like solar wind. Obi-Wan had only once seen his master so agitated before—when they had been searching for Tahl.

“I have little to say, Master,” Obi-Wan answered quietly, standing with this hands tucked into his robe’s sleeves, his eyes downcast, watching Qui-Gon’s booted feet pass back and forth in front of him, horrified as much at his master’s infuriated tone of voice as he was at his own behavior. “I, I was angry, and I used the Force to shove Bruck away, into the wall. I acted foolishly and in anger, without thought.”

“‘Foolish’ does not begin to describe your actions, Padawan,” Qui-Gon snarled at him. “You could be expelled from the Temple, do you realize that?” There was almost a sense of panic beneath his words.

Obi-Wan flinched, belly tightening, heart skipping a beat. Qui-Gon had spoken harshly to him any number of times before, but had never actually, well, shouted at him this way. It made Obi-Wan feel more ashamed than he already did, that his actions could provoke his own master to this state, and over such a stupid, immature lapse in judgement. This was all too much the way he’d acted when Tahl had been killed. Being expelled from the Temple paled in comparison to what it would mean to deal Qui-Gon yet another such injury.

“You let Bruck provoke you as if you’d forgotten everything you’ve learned during the last seven years,” his master accused, not calming in the least.

“Not at first, Master,” Obi-Wan amended, lamely.

“Not at first?” Qui-Gon repeated in outraged and sarcastic astonishment, stopping before him. “You didn’t let him provoke you _at first_?” Obi-Wan still didn’t raise his eyes. He could feel the anger emanating off his master and it frightened him. _Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering,_ Obi-Wan recited to himself, realizing for the first time how contagious anger and fear were. Obi-Wan wondered what made his master fearful enough to lapse into such weakness. “Does that justify it, then?” Qui-Gon continued. “You showed restraint and self-control _for a time,_ so what you did ultimately is more easily excused? Is that what you’re saying?”

 _Swallow it and get it over with,_ Obi-Wan thought. “No, Master. Not at all. There is no excuse for my behavior. I accept full responsibility for it.”

“No, Obi-Wan, there isn’t any excuse for it,” Qui-Gon agreed, drawing in a deep breath and expelling it forcefully, pushing all his heated emotions out with it into the Force. The struggle to regain control of his feelings was as visible in his master as it had been when he stood over Tahl’s killer. He drew in another deep breath and seemed to shake himself without moving. “But the responsibility for it is ultimately mine because I am the one who has trained you, and I fear my example has not always been the best, Padawan. I expect an explanation, and so will the Council. What could Bruck Chun possibly say to you that would provoke such a reaction?”

Qui-Gon’s hand closed on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. Obi-Wan looked up, startled, seeing compassion and pain in his master’s eyes; that hurt him more than the anger. “It’s not like you, my young Padawan. Don’t make the same mistakes I’ve made. You’ve worked too hard all these years to end up like me. What did he say?”

“I, I won’t repeat it, Master.” _Please don’t ask me to_ , he begged silently.

“You must, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said gently, the anger and fear completely dissipated now. “The Council will want to know. Whatever it was, it won’t excuse you, but it may make Bruck take the responsibility that’s due him, if he goaded you. That shows its own lack of control. Don’t protect him; it won’t help him in the long run and it may hurt you unnecessarily. I know you’re not that angry young boy anymore.”

“It’s not Bruck I’m protecting,” Obi-Wan said in a strangled voice, looking down at the floor again. Worse and worse.

“Who then? Not yoursel—me?” His apprentice nodded, once, miserably. “Oh. I see.” Qui-Gon was silent for a time. “I see,” he repeated at last. “There’s only one thing it could be, then, isn’t there? He’s resurrected that old rumor, the one about what ‘really’ happened to Xanatos, what I did to push him over to the Dark Side, and taunted you with it. Is that it?” Behind a carefully cultivated stoicism, Qui-Gon sounded injured and . . . guilty? Confused and hurting for his master, Obi-Wan wanted to comfort him somehow. And he couldn’t. To do so would only betray everything he was feeling, everything he’d been struggling to hide from Qui-Gon for so long.

“Yes, Master,” he said faintly. “How did you know?”

Qui-Gon said nothing, merely gave him a heartachingly sad smile, brushed his cheek with calloused fingertips and walked away to sit heavily on the edge of a chair, elbows propped on his knees, one hand dangling, the other massaging his temple. “It does happen, you know,” he said quietly. “Not the way it’s been painted by Padawan Chun, but when both master and apprentice are consenting adults, only when they care for each other as adults. It’s not encouraged, but neither is it unusual. Most often it’s simply an adolescent hero-worship that fades; sometimes not. There was nothing like that between Xanatos and me. And no Jedi who follows the light would do that to a child.”

“I know, Master.” Obi-Wan said, putting as much reassurance into his voice as he could. Anything to forestall more questions. If Qui-Gon would believe this was all that had set him off, he was safe. “I never believed that of you. But there’s no point in repeating it, in opening old wounds. I was wrong to react the way I did, no matter what Bruck said or did or implied. I deserve whatever punishment the Council sees fit to give me. Bruck’s insinuations will be his own downfall eventually.”

Qui-Gon looked up at him then, his features set in that strange inscrutability he’d seen so often at negotiation tables, and Obi-Wan knew he was seeing through everything his padawan had just said.

“What else did he insinuate, Padawan?”

Obi-Wan said nothing for a time that seemed interminable to both of them, writhing inside in indecision and shame. Qui-Gon rose from his chair and stood in front of his apprentice, towering over him, though Obi-Wan was not a small man. It wasn’t conscious intimidation, but it was intimidation nonetheless. “Tell me,” the master commanded the student. There was no refusing him.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and turned his face away.

 

Qui-Gon had never seen him look so shamed, or so completely defeated. He seemed lightyears beyond ordinary embarrassment, face pale, pulse jumping in his throat. The emotions coming off his padawan stained the Force with pain and clawed at Qui-Gon’s heart like trapped animals. “That you and I—” Obi-Wan stammered. Qui-Gon could barely hear him. “That I liked it,” he finally gasped out.

Qui-Gon felt all the air forced out of his lungs with the shock, not at the words themselves—which he had expected—but at the depth of the feeling behind them. In his distress, Obi-Wan had left himself almost completely unshielded and the last four words he’d spoken had held such a desperate longing that it almost stopped his master’s heart.

Qui-Gon had not been blind to his apprentice’s new feelings for him; it would have been almost impossible not to notice, especially after that day in the practice rooms when he’d had to singe Obi-Wan out of his fog of arousal. But he hadn’t suspected Obi-Wan truly loved him. Not like this.

Such a development wasn’t uncommon in the relationship between master and apprentice, not when they lived so closely for such a long time. Sometimes, as he’d said, it was merely an adolescent crush. Rarely, it held true over the years and the relationship became a life-long bond. He’d been truthful in that. What he hadn’t been truthful about was what he felt himself. He hadn’t lied—he would not to his own apprentice, not about this—but neither had he been forthcoming. Qui-Gon had not been sure for some time what category his own feelings for Obi-Wan fell into. Xanatos’s betrayal had cut him deeply, Tahl’s death moreso. He wasn’t sure those wounds would ever heal, and he was unwilling to either reopen or add to them.

But it seemed the choice was not entirely his to make. Mace had brought him up short this evening just by coupling the word “expulsion” with Obi-Wan’s name, sending a stab of panic through him. It became suddenly clear that he had put off examining his own feelings for too long, if that word could evoke such a reaction. But Tahl’s death had left him raw for so long that he had withdrawn into himself, cutting off his friends and colleagues as he had after Xan’s defection. Only with Obi-Wan had he allowed himself a measure of warmth and feeling, a measure that had grown, but slowly, over the years.

Only with Obi-Wan.

While it wasn’t unusual for young apprentices to develop a crush on their masters, or even become infatuated with them, old masters falling in love with their padawans was far more unusual, almost unheard of—and completely undignified. Such a deep love was rare enough in such pairs, and it seemed absurd to Qui-Gon that he should desire his young apprentice at his age. The idea was ridiculous. Wasn’t it?

He looked up at the boy—the young man—standing abjectly in the middle of their quarters, head bowed, shamed, embarrassed, miserable, and felt his heart break.

“Obi-Wan,” he said in a quiet but clear voice. His apprentice looked up, swallowing heavily. “Where is the shame in those feelings? Why should they humiliate you, as they seem to? Simply because I am your master?” A flicker of something passed over his padawan’s face, something Qui-Gon thought might be hope. _Besotted old fool!_ he railed silently.

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“Were you afraid I would find out how you feel? And then what? That I would disparage your feelings?”

“Both, I suppose. Less the latter than the former. I’m sorry, Master. I know its ridiculous—”

The very word he had used himself. “Don’t belittle them yourself now, Padawan, before you’ve even told me what they are. Or would you prefer not to? I know it’s not easy to do so. But it’s best to be open about it, at the very least so you can be clear in your own mind.”

“You mean about whether I’m merely infatuated or simply lusting after you?” Obi-Wan said sourly. “I assure you it’s far beyond infatuation, though I admit it started out as that.”

“And lust?”

“If you call it desire, rather than lust, that would be more accurate.”

“Well, then,” Qui-Gon murmured.

“Indeed,” Obi-Wan whispered, looking away once again. “I am sorry, Master. Please believe me. I will try not to burden you further—”

Qui-Gon held up one hand, halting his apprentice’s apology. “We have much to discuss, Padawan, and little time before I must mete out your punishment in the presence of your Masters. I know it will be difficult, but I ask that you be completely honest in your replies. And say no more than necessary. Do you understand?”

Frowning, Obi-Wan nodded, just as the door chimed. Qui-Gon lay a hand on his shoulder briefly and turned to answer it.

 

Behind it were two Council members, Yoda and Mace Windu, and a third master neither Qui-Gon nor Obi-Wan knew. Qui-Gon bowed and gestured them inside. In the corner, Obi-Wan went immediately to his knees, hands tucked into his sleeves, head bowed submissively, almost to the floor. Mace Windu completed the introductions as Obi-Wan listened, his presence ignored. He would, he knew, be spoken about as though he were not in the room, and he was expected to speak only when spoken to. He could feel all three masters regarding him critically. It made the skin between his shoulders itch.

Bruck’s master, the third Jedi, Leth Astl, was a small woman in her early thirties. Controlled energy radiated from her, something that wasn’t anger or any other particularly strong emotion, merely natural animation. But even Obi-Wan sensed the tinge of fear in the air and knew it wasn’t entirely his own.

“We’ve spoken with Padawan Chun,” Master Windu began when the four Jedi had settled in chairs. “He claims your Padawan’s actions were unprovoked, Qui-Gon.”

Obi-Wan felt a surge of anger rise in him, fought to calmly experience it and own it and release it. That was so like Bruck. Nothing was ever his fault.

“I must tell you, Master Jinn” Astl added, “that I would be surprised if they truly were. I know you and your Padawan only by reputation, but that reputation does not fit an unprovoked attack on another apprentice. I also know my Padawan harbors some grudge against yours. Do you know what it is?”

“There has been some animosity between them since they were children,” Qui-Gon replied carefully. “A matter of not-unusual adolescent cruelty, I believe. But they were also in competition to become my apprentice, and at a time when I was reluctant to take one. Obi-Wan defeated him in a test match, in a rather humiliating manner, and Padawan Chun may still be struggling with his feelings in this regard. Of course, there is also the matter of their last fight with each other, in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Part of Bruck’s reaction may be guilt, and shame. They parted from each other after that event without any closure. Perhaps it has festered all this time.”

Master Astl nodded sadly. “Yes, I was afraid that might be it. But I’d hoped—

“Ah,” Qui-Gon said noncommittally, but with some sympathy. Bruck sounded like a troubled young man.

“Padawan Kenobi,” Master Windu called him. “Come here.”

“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan replied, rising, eyes still downcast, and entered the circle of his superiors, facing Master Windu. He dropped to his knees once more and bowed briefly.

“What have you to say in this matter?”

“Only that I acted badly, Master. In anger and without either thought or control.”

“Provoked, were you?” Master Yoda demanded sharply.

Obi-Wan was silent.

“Tell the truth, Padawan. That is always best, though often painful,” Qui-Gon counseled him.

“Yes, Master. Yes, I allowed myself to be provoked, Master Yoda.”

“Allowed yourself, did you?” Yoda continued. “An indulgence, was it? Harbor a grudge also, do you, Padawan?”

 _Gods, there’s no escaping Master Yoda,_ Obi-Wan thought. _He’s just like a laser drill._ “No, Master Yoda. In truth, I haven’t thought of Bruck in years.”

“Then how did he provoke you, Padawan?” Windu continued.

Obi-Wan swallowed uncomfortably. There was nothing for it but the kernel of truth. “He uncovered the feelings I have for my master, feelings I had not yet discussed with anyone. I was afraid Bruck would . . . use them.”

Windu raised an eyebrow in Qui-Gon’s direction. Obi-Wan’s master remained impassive. “Have you discussed them now, with your master?” Windu pressed.

Obi-Wan felt the undercurrent of fear strengthen, realized with a start it was coming from Bruck’s master, wondered if he were the only one aware of it.

“That matter is between my apprentice and me, Master Windu,” Qui-Gon interjected. “It has no bearing here.”

“I beg to differ, Master Jinn,” Windu replied. “If it provoked your apprentice to such an uncharacteristic action, those feelings must be addressed.”

“Not here. Not with your involvement.”

“Qui-Gon—”

“No, Mace. That is my final word. I will not argue the matter with you, in front of the boy.”

Obi-Wan snatched a surreptitious look in Master Yoda’s direction. The ancient Jedi Master was watching his colleagues’ sparring thoughtfully through half-lowered lids, an expression Obi-Wan knew meant he was opening himself to the Force and the emotions and future possibilities flowing through it in the room. He could feel Master Yoda’s presence as a solid, calming influence and clung to it.

“Correct Master Jinn is,” the little Jedi Master piped in. “A matter between master and apprentice this is. For now. Be mindful you will, Qui-Gon, so become a matter for the Council it does not.”

“I shall endeavor to make certain it does not, Master,” Qui-Gon assured him.

Windu looked disgruntled, but bowed to Master Yoda’s experience. Eight centuries was too much to discount casually.

“Padawan Kenobi,” Yoda continued. “Understand the reason for your actions do you?”

“Yes, Master Yoda. My master and I have discussed it. I know from where my fear arose, and why, and the anger with it. I offer no excuses for it. But I will not repeat my error.”

“So sure are you, hmmm, young Padawan?” Yoda murmured, watching him through slitted lids.

 _I hate it when he does that,_ Obi-Wan thought. “As sure as I can be, Master Yoda. The future is always in motion. Perhaps I should say I will be more mindful of the tendency.”

Windu chuckled. “You’ve trained him well, Qui-Gon, at least in diplomacy.”

“Masters, may I speak?” Obi-Wan interjected, catching Qui-Gon’s quick frown.

“Continue, Padawan,” Windu told him.

“I would like to offer my apologies to all of you for the trouble I’ve caused, and especially to Master Astl for injuring her apprentice and to my own master, for shaming him. The fault is mine and I wish to assure you I harbor no ill will against Padawan Chun. I’ve apologized to him already, but I would be willing to make a more public one.”

“I believe that is already in order, Padawan Kenobi, at the next open assembly,” Windu told him. “Master Astl, is that agreeable to you? And the punishment we discussed earlier?”

“Yes, I believe that is sufficient,” she agreed.

“Master Jinn?”

“I concur,” Obi-Wan heard his master say. That explained his absence from their quarters initially. He’d already conferred with the Council while Obi-Wan was with Bruck and the Docent.

“Ten demerits on your record will you receive, Padawan Kenobi,” Yoda told him, “and a halfyear’s probation.”

“Infractions committed during that period leave you subject to dismissal without appeal because of the severity of this infraction,” Windu explained. “The demerits will be weighed against your final records after the trials and before conferring full Knighthood upon you. That it is your first infraction and that you have taken responsibility for it will also be noted. This in addition to your public apology and whatever punishment your master sees fit to impose. Do you understand, Padawan?”

“Yes, Masters. Thank you, Masters.” Obi-Wan bowed until his forehead was resting against the floor and remained so until all three had departed. There was some conferring in the hallway outside before Qui-Gon came back inside to find his apprentice still on his knees, head to the floor.

 

It made something in Qui-Gon’s chest ache. “Get up, Padawan,” he said gently.

“If it please you, Master, I am sorry. I’ve been a complete fool,” Obi-Wan replied with a quiet dignity, sitting up but not rising off his knees. He seemed surprised when Qui-Gon knelt before him and stroked one large hand over his bristly hair and tugged on his braid.

“Not a complete fool, Padawan. You handled that interrogation very well, even Master Yoda.”

“Thank you, Master. I never meant to expose you like that in front of them. Thank you for, for what you said to Master Windu, that it was between us.”

“It is between us, Obi-Wan. Love is a private matter even for Jedi unless it interferes with duty, as I have let it do before. I would not see you make the same mistake. And it is one I hope not to repeat myself.”

“No, Master,” Obi-Wan murmured. “I understand that I have put you in an untenable position.”

“Not untenable, but . . . difficult. Reciprocated or not, such feelings create a situation that must be handled carefully if we are not to damage our already-existing relationship. And of the two, our relationship as master and apprentice is far more important to me in the long-term.”

Obi-Wan’s head snapped up and he stared at Qui-Gon with surprise. “Are you saying—”

“I am saying that what you ask, what you want, is not impossible, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon admitted. He looked into his apprentice’s eyes determinedly, knowing in his heart there was no going back from what he was about to say, and that it was absolutely right. “It has been a long time since I let myself . . . feel—anything. And I find that what I feel now—that I do feel anything now—is due to your presence in my life. I never expected you would become so important to me, Padawan. I never expected to love anyone again, after Tahl. And yet I do. I have come to love you.

“But I am not about to lose another padawan for the sake of having a lover, and I am . . . afraid of losing another lover to the circumstances of the kind of life we lead. We make a good team already; this could make us a better one. Or it could destroy all we’ve built in the last seven years. It could destroy my reputation and end my already rather checkered career. It could destroy your chances of being a knight. I know you are meant to be a great Jedi, Obi-Wan, and I will not be the cause of your failure to fulfill your destiny. If our becoming lovers did any of those things, I think . . . I think it would finish me, Padawan. I am not so resilient as I once was.”

 

A long silence filled the room, tension palpable in it. Tension and longing and fear. And desire. Not just his own, Obi-Wan was surprised to find, but his master’s as well. He hadn’t thought of what might happen to their finely honed team, to a mission, of what terrible choices would need to be made if one of them were injured or threatened or killed—all possibilities that were less remote than he liked to contemplate.

For a time, he didn’t know what to say, or if he should say anything. Qui-Gon closed his eyes, face drawn, body tense as he knelt before his padawan, their knees nearly touching. He closed his own eyes for a moment, reaching out for the Force and his calm center, trying to read the currents of time around him, and the will of the true master he served. It didn’t take long to find. The sense of rightness had been there all along, but before this, he had never been able to actually see himself and Qui-Gon together as anything but what they had always been to each other. Tonight, there was something different.

_A blue robe, himself holding it open for Qui-Gon. Wrapped in it, his master stepping over to the mirror, rubbing the material experimentally between his thumb and fingers, stroking his palms down his arms once, then tucking his hands inside the loose sleeves as though it were his cloak, delight honest in his face. Pulling Obi-Wan into his arms, tilting his head for a kiss, gentle then warming as it is returned._

“Qui-Gon,” he said, opening his eyes again, reaching for one of the hands resting on his master’s knee. The older man looked up at him, face devoid of expression. “What I want for you is only happiness. I haven’t started very well this evening, and I’ve made my own mistakes before this. But I will not fail you, no matter what. My commitment to the order, to becoming a knight, is no less for loving you. If anything, you have only made it greater. I have learned so much from you. Believe me when I say I would not jeopardize what we have now or my own destiny. Give me the opportunity to prove that to you.”

He looked up to see his master regarding him with an equally sober expression. “I understand why you reacted the way you did, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said quietly, with his usual gentle authority. “Do you?”

Always a lesson. “Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan answered dutifully. “I was afraid of your reaction to my feelings, and I was afraid Bruck would tell you, or use them against me somehow to separate me from you. The fear made me angry; I struck out. It was a gross lack of control. I know that.”

Qui-Gon nodded. “It was a gross lack of control,” he agreed. “And very unlike you, as I said before. You’re not easily goaded anymore, Obi-Wan. You have fine control, as a general rule. Why do you suppose you slipped so badly this time?”

Obi-Wan considered the question for some time. The answer was obvious, but he hated to say it aloud for some reason. Qui-Gon arched an eyebrow at him. “Padawan?”

“Because I love you as I do,” he said finally. Why did it hurt so much to say that? Why was it so hard to?

“Do you see how vulnerable that makes you? Vulnerable to others, to me, to your own emotions? Your feelings do you credit, Obi-Wan. But they can also become a weapon against you in the wrong hands, unless you learn to bridle them. Own them. Don’t let them rule you.”

“Yes, Master. I think I understand.” But he didn’t really. How did one “own” love this intense? How did one stop it from roaring through one like lightning grounding?

“And they make us vulnerable, together,” Qui-Gon added. “Both your feelings and mine. And I fear I have been a teacher in this area only by negative example. The Code forbids passion for a good reason.”

“My master is a passionate man,” Obi-Wan agreed quietly.

Qui-Gon smiled, sadness in it. “And not the best of Jedi for it, my Padawan. But this is a lesson you must learn on your own as I am still learning it. Although I am responsible for you, for your life, I cannot be responsible for your feelings or how you act on them. I can only be responsible for my own, and I have made a great many mistakes in that area myself. I can teach you everything I know, have already taught you a great deal that you’ve learned well. But this is something new for you and very powerful for both of us, and if we are not both very careful, it could kill or ruin either or both of us. A distraction at the wrong moment, a thought for the other when we should be mindful of the moment, and one or both of us may end up dead, or worse.”

Betrayed. That was what Qui-Gon meant by “worse.” The idea sent its own spike of fear through Obi-Wan. “I—I hadn’t thought this out. I’m sorry. I’ve created quite a mess, haven’t I?”

Qui-Gon cupped his apprentice’s face in one hand, running his thumb along Obi-Wan’s smooth cheekbone and down into the light stubble below it. “Not by yourself, love. We have my feelings for you, too, to deal with, and now Bruck’s behavior, and his master’s inability to rein him in, if that’s truly the case. Why does he hate you so?”

“I don’t really know, Master. Bruck’s always held a grudge, even when we were children. I suspect he’s still smarting from the events in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. And he’s jealous—those were nearly the first words out of his mouth.”

“Jealous?”

“That I’m your Padawan. He wanted to be chosen by you so badly. As badly as I did.”

Qui-Gon smiled, amused. “I had no idea I was such a catch among the initiates,” he said drily.

“You were my only hope,” Obi-Wan said softly, laying his hand over his master’s larger one still cupping his cheek. “You still are.”

“No, Padawan. You have your own destiny before you. The Force will guide you, with or without me.”

“Not without you, I hope,” he said in a voice gone husky with emotion, blue eyes gazing intently up into his own, burning. “Never without you.”

“Then we must both be mindful of our feelings, not just for our own sakes, but for someone like Master Astl as well.”

“You felt her fear, too, then? I thought perhaps I was only projecting my own feelings.”

“No,” Qui-Gon said, shaking his head sadly. “She was more afraid than you were. And what would make her fearful in that situation? What was being said when you felt her fear?”

Obi-Wan reviewed the scene in his mind. “Master Windu was asking you if you’d discussed—Oh. She’s in love with Bruck, isn’t she?”

“I believe so. I would guess Bruck does not reciprocate the feelings.”

“I can’t imagine them as a pair.”

Qui-Gon smiled. “No? And how many would say the same about us?”

“True,” Obi-Wan agreed. “Poor woman. How awful to not have the person you love love you back.”

Qui-Gon stroked his apprentice’s cheek again. “Tender-hearted Padawan. How like you to sympathize.”

“Master,” Obi-Wan said in a tone of voice that indicated the thought had just occurred to him, “you knew they weren’t going to expel me, didn’t you?”

“Yes. We had already discussed your punishment, and Bruck’s. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to make you aware of the possibility. It was a serious infraction, Obi-Wan.”

“So what punishment am I to receive from you?” Obi-Wan purred.

 

 _Discipline,_ Qui-Gon thought. _Control._ Obi-Wan turned his head, kissed the palm of Qui-Gon’s hand, following the lines on it with the tip of his tongue. The Jedi Master felt a thrill flow through him he had not felt in years, one that started somewhere in his chest and plummeted right to his groin. _You can’t help what you feel, only how you act on it. Remember your own words, fool._ At that moment, he was very close to forgetting everything he knew and simply taking the young man before him in his arms, pushing him up against the wall, and doing what they both wanted. The depth of feeling didn’t surprise him, but the need did, surprised and frightened him.

“Padawan—” Qui-Gon said, his own voice gone to gravel. Obi-Wan reached out for him again.

Shaking, Qui-Gon sat back on his heels, out of reach, resting his hands on his thighs, regarding his apprentice like the thermal detonator he’d suddenly become. “Well, that is the question, isn’t it?” he said, managing somehow to keep his voice steady. “I believe a week’s worth of meditative exercises on the nature of fear are in order, at the very least, in addition to your regular meditations. I want you to focus on the nature of your own fears, not fear in general, and how to live with them and let them go.”

“Yes, Master.” Obi-Wan, mirroring his position, seemed both relieved and—amused.

“And we’re going to go through the anger exercises again.”

“Oh, no,” Obi-Wan groaned. “Not more ‘Pick On the Padawan.’”

“And . . .” Qui-Gon trailed off thoughtfully.

“And?” Obi-Wan prompted gingerly.

“I don’t think some lessons in control are uncalled for.”

“No, Master,” Obi-Wan said wearily.

Then Qui-Gon rose on his knees, reached over, and pulled his startled padawan into his arms, pressing their bodies together seamlessly. “We’ll start now,” he said gruffly, his mouth descending on Obi-Wan’s. Their teeth grated for a moment as his apprentice returned the kiss and threw his weight against his master’s body. Qui-Gon pinned him tightly, rocking back on his heels until Obi-Wan was forced to straddle his thighs. Large hands slid his robe from his shoulders and flung it aside. Obi-Wan gasped as Qui-Gon bit his chin, running his tongue into the cleft there, and moved down his throat, nipping lightly as he went.

His padawan’s hands fumbled at the belt at his waist, but Qui-Gon stopped him, holding the hands away and sitting up again.

“You’re certain about this, Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon asked, arms clasped behind his apprentice’s lower back, holding Obi-Wan’s with them. “No question, no hesitation, no misgivings, no second thoughts?”

“None,” he said simply and immediately.

Qui-Gon looked at him without expression. “How old are you, Padawan?”

Obi-Wan frowned. “You’d know if anyone would. Twenty.”

“How old am I?”

“Fifty-two? Not that you look it. More like forty-two.”

“Fifty-five, next tenth.”

“And?”

“Just so we’re clear about it. Stand up.”

Obi-Wan got to his feet, while Qui-Gon stayed on his knees and slowly unbuckled his Padawan’s belt and unwound the sash carefully, almost ritualistically, setting it on the floor beside him. His large hands traveled slowly up the exposed skin beneath the now-open tunic from Obi-Wan’s waist across his sculpted abdomen, over his ribs, running calloused palms like fine sandpaper across his nipples, over his shoulders and down his arms, sweeping off the loosened tunic, letting it fall to the floor. Qui-Gon’s mouth lingered hot over the hard stomach, his tongue dipping into Obi-Wan’s navel, astonished at the taste, the silkiness of the skin. His apprentice shivered, hands buried in his master’s thick hair. “You’ve got no right to be so beautiful,” Qui-Gon murmured, getting to his feet, kissing and nipping his way up Obi-Wan’s body to his mouth. They kissed hungrily for a time, tasting each other, tongues roaming and touching and probing, hands doing the same. Obi-Wan’s had found their way inside their master’s tunic when Qui-Gon broke the kiss and stepped back, holding his arms out to the side. “Your turn,” he said. “Slowly. Pay attention to what you’re doing.”

 

Obi-Wan released the buckles on his master’s belt one by one, loosened the leather and took it off Qui-Gon as though he were touching wounded flesh, then laid it beside his own belt and sash. His master’s sash he unwound even more carefully, his motions precise and delicate, folding it and placing it under Qui-Gon’s belt. He folded his own tunic and placed it under his belt and sash and turned back to his master, sliding his hands under the loosened fabric. Beneath the coarsely woven material, Qui-Gon’s skin was ridiculously smooth. How could a man with so many sharp edges to his mind and voice, and hands that looked as though they’d done manual labor, have skin like this, pale and soft as silk? Obi-Wan traced the ridges of muscles lying across his master’s stomach and enclosing his ribs, curving around his back and over his shoulders with a touch so light it raised gooseflesh on Qui-Gon and made him shiver. “Ah . . .” he breathed, head thrown back, eyes closed, giving himself over to his Padawan’s hands, and then to his mouth, which suddenly seemed to be everywhere. Qui-Gon hissed as Obi-Wan licked and bit one nipple, then the other, until the flesh hardened beneath his mouth.

Obi-Wan slipped the tunic from his master’s shoulders and down his arms, whisked it away and folded it, piling it with the sash and belt. When he stood again, Qui-Gon pulled him into his arms once more, hands gliding heavily down his back to the waistband of his pants. “These next?” he said hoarsely.

“Yes, please.” Obi-Wan seemed to have suddenly lost his breath.

Qui-gon hesitated a moment and drew in a deep breath, exhaling slowly, as though reining himself in. Then, in a smooth motion, he ducked and bent, hoisting a startled Obi-Wan over his shoulder like a sack of meal. In a few strides, they were in his master’s room and Qui-Gon had dumped him unceremoniously on his vast bed. In another moment, his feet were bare and Qui-Gon’s large hands were running lightly over his instep and arches, making him squirm. His master smiled slightly. “Ticklish? I didn’t know that. Anywhere else?”

“As if I’d tell you,” Obi-Wan grinned. “You’ll have to find out for yourself.”

“Oh, I will, my Padawan. I will.” If it were a threat, Obi-Wan looked forward to it being carried out.

Qui-Gon’s hands glided up his apprentice’s legs, stroking his calves and knees, the insides of his thighs as he knelt on one knee between them. The fabric strained tightly over his erection and Qui-Gon leaned over it, watching his apprentice’s expression. Obi-Wan waited tensely to feel those mobile lips pressed against him, but there was only heat as Qui-Gon breathed out over the cloth. Mesmerized with anticipation, Obi-Wan didn’t even notice Qui-Gon’s fingers undoing the fastenings at his waist. Before he knew it, everything was halfway down his hips and his master was kissing each newly revealed centimeter of skin. “Up,” Qui-Gon said, and Obi-Wan raised his hips off the bed, starting to feel completely dazed already. His heart was pounding beneath his ribs and other signs of his arousal were plainly evident when his pants slid down off his ass. Qui-Gon slid them the rest of the way down and off at a very slow pace, caressing as he went. Obi-Wan was wriggling and whimpering by the time they were completely off.

 

Then Qui-Gon stood back and admired the result. Stretched out on the bed, taut as a strung wire, was a body that might have belonged to a young god, Qui-Gon thought, some part of him amused at his own cliched hyperbole, and surprised that it should move him so. Well, cliched perhaps, but not much hyperbole: Broad shoulders; slim waist and hips; muscled chest dusted with light, crisp hair; blue eyes full of fire and mischief and pale, heavy brows arching with irony over them; the mouth from which traces of a sly smile could never be entirely erased; and of course, the eagerly arcing erection. “You really are astoundingly beautiful, love,” Qui-Gon murmured.

“Get over here,” Obi-Wan growled impatiently, reaching out again. Qui-Gon backed away.

“Control, my love. This is a lesson, remember.”

Obi-Wan let out a frustrated cry and hurled himself over on his stomach, bowing his head and sinking his hands into the bedclothes, muttering something obscene about “another bloody lesson.”

“That view’s lovely too,” Qui-Gon commented appreciatively. He sat down on the bed and began to pull his own boots off, but took a moment to stroke the sensual curve of his lover’s back and run his hands possessively over Obi-Wan’s ass. His apprentice quivered under his touch and moaned. When he looked over his shoulder, Qui-Gon was standing by the side of the bed, divested of clothing. They’d seen each other unclothed a thousand times before; this was the first time they’d truly seen each other naked. Obi-Wan looked hungrily.

Qui-Gon was larger, broader, his chest deeper than Obi-Wan’s. A fine pattern of pale scars criss-crossed the left side of his ribs from some old injury, but the whole of it was taut with muscle that rippled with power and grace as he moved and breathed. The cobalt-blue eyes had gone cloudy with desire, and though he stood quite still, energy moiled the air around him, stirring the hair on Obi-Wan’s neck. He’d loosened the thong in his silver-shot hair and it fell like shadow across one side of his face, making the planes in it starker, the eyes seem deeper, their gaze more penetrating. Grey had touched the hair on his chest, too, but the tight curls around his cock were still dark. And his cock seemed suddenly enormous. Obi-Wan rolled over again for a better look, saw the smile it provoked in his master and stretched provocatively.

Qui-Gon sat down beside him and traced the line of pale hair running from navel to groin with one hand, then the crease of thighs with his fingers until his hands were between Obi-Wan’s legs. He parted them slowly, watching Obi-Wan’s face as he took his Padawan’s scrotum in one hand, running his thumb across the textured skin, squeezing gently.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and tried to exhale, but there didn’t seem to be any air in his lungs. The inhale became a gasp as he felt Qui-Gon lick the tip of his cock and rub his beard lightly over the shaft. That touch was almost enough to make him come. He shuddered hard and moaned. “Steady, love,” his master said softly. “It doesn’t all have to happen right now.” Qui-Gon pressed his thumb against a spot beneath his scrotum and the pressure eased a little. “Better?” Obi-Wan nodded, breathing heavily through parted lips. “You look so hungry, love. Have you waited so long?”

“Ten minutes is too long with you in the same room,” he growled. “Come here, would you?”

“Patience, Padawan. Patience. We have all night.”

“Gods, you’re going to kill me.”

“Slowly. And you’ll like it.” Qui-Gon smiled wickedly, an expression Obi-Wan hadn’t seen before. Well, every day was a new learning experience, indeed.

Qui-Gon leaned forward and kissed him again, as slowly as he’d threatened, tongue just brushing Obi-Wan’s mouth, slipping slyly inside when his lips parted then darting out again. He took his Padawan’s lower lip between his teeth and nipped gently, repeatedly, leaving it swollen and tender. Small inarticulate noises were coming out of Obi-Wan now.

Qui-Gon licked the curve of one ear, bit the lobe, nuzzled the tender skin beneath it, then found the pulse in Obi-Wan’s throat, feeling it beat fast and hard beneath his lips. Opening his mouth over it, he sucked gently, bringing blood to the surface, tasting the heat in it.

“Qui-Gon—” Obi-Wan moaned.

“No talking, Padawan,” Qui-Gon growled, bringing his mouth down over his apprentice’s windpipe, just below his Adam’s apple, and biting down, not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to mark it. Obi-Wan froze, wide-eyed and barely breathing. Qui-Gon did too, just as shocked. They held the tableau for a moment, Qui-Gon feeling his lover’s astonishment and the adrenalin jolt rushing through his body, and finally, his submission. Then Qui-Gon traced the arc of Obi-Wan’s exposed throat with his tongue, up to the jaw and over it, biting Obi-Wan’s chin when he reached it. “I love this,” he murmured, touching the cleft there with one finger and then with his tongue.

Obi-Wan reached for him again, but Qui-Gon caught his hands and held them over his apprentice’s head. “Your turn later,” he said and began kissing his way down Obi-Wan’s body again, from the hollow of his throat, across the collarbones, down his chest, from one nipple to the other until his lover was writhing, his tongue following the shallow cut of muscle in his belly, dipping into his navel. He pulled Obi-Wan’s arms down with him as he went until they were pinned to either side of him and Qui-Gon had straddled his legs. Obi-Wan arched his back, trying to lift his hips off the bed, but was firmly held down. Slowly, watching his lover’s face, Qui-Gon lowered his head and took Obi-Wan’s cock his mouth, tongue swirling over the crown, tasting bitter salt and need.

His lover threw back his head, crying out. Qui-Gon licked the shaft with great attention, then blew gently on it, watching Obi-Wan writhe and gasp, really struggling in his master’s grasp. Obi-Wan’s breath was harsh and loud in the room. Qui-Gon took him in again, deeper this time, sucking hard in time with the movement of Obi-Wan’s hips until he knew his lover was just on the edge of coming. Then he stopped and sat back to watch the result.

Obi-Wan thrashed below him like a man in a fever. “Gods, Qui-Gon, finish me off!” It was nearly a shout, a desperate demand. “I can’t stand it!”

“Say my name again, love. I never get to hear it from you.”

“Qui-Gon! Please—” Pleading now, wild-eyed and gasping.

Letting go his Padawan’s hands, Qui-Gon took pity on him and enveloped Obi-Wan’s cock with his mouth, taking him in deeply, moving with his thrusts, sucking and licking. Freed hands tangled themselves in Qui-Gon’s thick hair, closed into fists, holding him down. Above him, harsh gasps turned to deep moans as Obi-Wan’s hips thrust harder, his back arched, muscles shuddering and locking. Qui-Gon took him in farther, almost to the root and swallowed as he came, letting the sound and fury of his lover’s orgasm fuel his own arousal.

When Obi-Wan was spent and slipping into sleep, Qui-Gon lay down beside him and kissed him again. “That’s your taste in my mouth,” he whispered, stroking his lover’s arm and shoulder and flank. “Share it with me.” Sleepy-eyed, Obi-Wan slid his arm around Qui-Gon’s neck, running his fingers through thick, grizzled hair, taking the kiss, giving it back, small noises of contentment rising from him. Afterwards, his arm slipped lower around Qui-gon’s waist, pulling him closer, so he could bury his face in his master’s chest. Feeling the hardness between them, he came awake again, surprised.

“You didn’t come,” Obi-Wan said, reaching for his erection.

“No,” Qui-Gon replied, catching his lover’s hand and kissing the heavy but agile fingers. “Not yet, though there were a few moments when you almost had me,” he admitted, his voice dark and rough, “thrashing around like that. You’re wonderfully noisy, Padawan.”

“‘Obi-Wan,’” his apprentice insisted. “I want to hear you say my name. Not ‘Padawan.’ Not here, Qui-Gon. Not in this bed with you.”

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon repeated, smiling a little ferally. “Roll over, Obi-Wan, my love.” He gave the younger man a little shove away, “back to me.”

“You _are_ going to kill me,” Obi-Wan groaned, complying.

“And you do like it, don’t you?” his master teased, stroking the shallow curve of his hip.

“Gods, yes. What now?” he said, nestling into the curl of his master’s body.

Qui-Gon leaned over him, brushing Obi-Wan’s ear with his lips, breathing softly into it, his hand moving across his lover’s ass, fingers just touching the top of the crevice separating the two hard globes of it. “I want to be inside you, love.”

Obi-Wan stopped breathing for a moment and his master could feel apprehension warring with desire and love and need. “You’ve never done it before,” Qui-Gon said, a little surprised. He knew his apprentice had had other partners, women and men, had assumed— _Idiot,_ he told himself. _Stupid assumption. The boy’s not you._

“No,” his apprentice replied, sounding shaky and unsure of himself, something he seldom was anymore. “No, but I want to, with you.” Too quickly.

“Not to please me, love. Only because you want to.”

“I want to . . .” The voice trailing off, still unsure. “It’s just—” “No, love. Not—” They spoke at once.

“What is it?” Qui-Gon prompted gently, kissing the back of his Padawan’s skull through the fine, ticklish bristles.

Obi-Wan touched his throat, feeling the marks of his master’s teeth just fading. “I want both. I want to please you. I want to do this with you. I just don’t understand what that—what that meant. I need to know.”

Qui-Gon exhaled, his breath warm on his apprentice’s neck. _How can you teach him any control when you’ve so little yourself, Master Jinn?_ he thought. _Truth is always best, no matter how painful._ “Possessiveness,” he admitted. “A lesson in dominance in a place it doesn’t belong, if we’re to be Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan here.” The younger man said nothing, lying quietly against him. “I would never hurt you, Obi-Wan.”

“I never thought you would,” sounding surprised that thought would occur to anyone, least of all his lover. He reached back and touched Qui-Gon’s face tenderly.

The older man felt a mixture of gratitude and wonder and love well up in him at Obi-Wan’s complete trust. “What a gift you offer me,” he murmured, catching the hand and kissing his palm.

“Please, Qui-Gon. I want this. I want you.”

Then you shall have me, love.”

 

There was a brief pause, some fumbling in the low table beside the bed, and then Qui-Gon’s hands were on him again, cool and slick, sliding over and against and between, parting, searching, stroking sensitive flesh no one else had touched before. “Relax,” Qui-Gon murmured to him, slippery fingers anointing the ring of tight muscles. One slipped inside before he knew it and he inhaled sharply, fighting the reflex to pull away.

“Did I hurt you?” Qui-Gon said against his cheek, beard scratching a little against his skin.

“No. No, it’s just—strange,” Obi-Wan replied, a little breathless. “Feels good.” And it did. It sent a thrill of adrenalin through him, firing the nerves all over his body, making him tremble. The sheets felt rough against his skin, and he wanted to roll in them, rub himself against them, feel with every inch of his body.

The apprehension was still there, but now it was overlaid by arousal. Qui-Gon kissed the back of his lover’s neck, his shoulder, the spaces between, running his tongue over the curves of his ear. “Obi-Wan,” he breathed, and slid two fingers inside.

A convulsive shudder coursed through him, making him cry out. He hadn’t dreamed it would feel like this, feel so good. He seemed alive all over. Cool fingers stroked the skin in the small of his back and over his ass. Qui-Gon’s cock lay hot against him and his own was growing hard again. The fingers moved inside him, curled and stroking some spot that sent little jolts of lightning through him. Dimly, he realized he was making really absurd and rather laughable noises, and his hips were moving with Qui-Gon’s rhythm. The older man leaned over him, kissed along his jaw and down his throat and over his shoulder. “Now, love?” he murmured.

“Yes!” Obi-Wan hissed.

The fingers withdrew and calloused hands spread him. Qui-Gon’s cock, slick and hot and huge, pressed against him and then was inside with a brief stab of pain that wasn’t really pain but merely more stimulation in his excitement. His hands shook, reaching out like a drowning man’s for help, sinking into the bedclothes and closing around them in fists. Other hands held his hips as he felt himself filled and somehow completed. Once inside, Qui-Gon held him tightly and they lay together unmoving for a time, his lover curled close around him, his hand stroking Obi-Wan’s cock. His heart seemed to be trying to escape through his ribs and there was suddenly much less oxygen in the air. He wasn’t sure which of them began to rock first, suspected it was himself. They moved together in a gentle rhythm that gradually grew quicker and more urgent.

“Harder!” Obi-Wan heard himself gasp. “Hurry.” Qui-Gon obliged, growling, his breath hot and harsh on Obi-Wan’s neck, and in a moment there was nothing but heat and light and energy arcing through him. The outside world disappeared and there was only himself and his lover and the bridge built between them of flesh and spirit, the Force singing through both of them and filling the room. Obi-Wan cried out, shouting, and came again, explosively, head thrown back against Qui-Gon’s shoulder, fingers digging into his lover’s thigh and clutching the hand around his cock. Qui-Gon shuddered against him, thrusting hard, and came a moment later with a groan so low it seemed to vibrate through Obi-Wan’s entire body. They bucked convulsively together, perfectly in synch, once, twice, again, and lay still.

 

Obi-Wan felt as though he’d been hit with a stun stick. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t think or move. His nerve endings felt raw. The light against his skin had weight and texture. His chest rose and fell but the air was gone from the room and his arms and legs were trembling violently. Behind him, he could feel Qui-Gon breathing in deep, ragged gasps. One of them was sobbing. “Love, did I hurt you?” Qui-Gon repeated two or three times before Obi-Wan realized it was he.

“No! No, gods no,” he cried, when he could think again, could remember how to form words. “No, Qui-Gon,” he sighed, laughing a little and wiping his eyes. “Unless you count making me feel like I’ve run into a stun field as bodily harm. Oh, gods, I never imagined—”

Qui-Gon laughed too, obviously pleased, kissing his neck and running his hand over the sheen of sweat on Obi-Wan’s skin, making him shudder and moan again. “Good. I’m glad, Obi-Wan.”

“Was it what you wanted?”

“Oh, yes, love. And more. Thank you,” Qui-Gon assured him, holding him close.

“Somehow, it doesn’t seem right for you to thank me,” Obi-Wan said drowsily, sinking into the embrace.

“Oh? Why not?” Qui-Gon sounded amused.

“Well, beside the fact that I feel more as if you’ve done me the favor, rather than the other way round, this was supposed to be part of my punishment, wasn’t it?”

Qui-Gon laughed aloud then and hugged Obi-Wan hard. “Yes, love, it was. Have you learned your lesson?”

“I don’t think so, Master,” Obi-Wan replied seriously. “I seem to have let myself get distracted.”

“Then I shall have to repeat it for your benefit, idiot Padawan, until you get it right.”

“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan said happily, slipping into sleep, wrapped in his lover’s arms. “Thank you, Master.”


End file.
